Christmas At 221B
by katkin
Summary: Sherlock and John decided to boycott their families and spend Christmas together resulting in theft, a drinking game, reminiscing, oh and don't forget the spider plant! Merry Christmas everyone! xx
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Hello all and welcome to my festive attempt at a Sherlock fic. I've read this through so many times that it's lost all humour to me, but I hope you find it funny, if a little OOC. This is for all of my readers and reviewers over the past year. Thanks for making writing so enjoyable for me. Here's to a wonderful 2011 (and Sherlock Series 2!)

K xx

Warnings: Alcohol consumption, silly male behaviour, cheesey bromance towards the end, and just generally a ridiculous plot.

* * *

Christmas Eve

Could a human brain shiver? Sherlock wasn't sure, but that was definitely something he would like to find out...later...when he could feel his limbs. It was Christmas Eve, which apparently meant that no boiler engineer could possibly come out and do their job. If there happened to be a gruesome murder, Sherlock would be out there doing his job on Christmas Eve. That's dedication for you!

He sat on the sofa with his knees drawn to his chest, wedged between the sofa arm and the shivering John Watson. A blanket covered the pair of them, and John sipped his tepid tea in an attempt to keep warm.

"This will be us in fifty years in the nursing home," Sherlock spoke up. John spluttered on his tea, looking mortified.

"Good God, I hope not!"

Sherlock smiled widely.

"That's a depressing thought," John mumbled, stretching to put his empty cup on the coffee table. His movement let the cold air into the blanket and Sherlock exclaimed his annoyance.

"Oh this is just ridiculous," Sherlock grumbled as he heard the soft footsteps approaching up the stairs. "Oi! Do something about this lack of heating or else I'm not paying my rent!"

"Excuse me!" Mrs Hudson exclaimed irritably as she arrived in the doorway, her hands on her hips. John sniggered as Sherlock faltered under her wrath. "For starters, young man, I really don't appreciate you addressing me as 'Oi'. I've said so before. It's just rude. Secondly, you haven't paid any rent for over three months."

John glared at Sherlock who shrugged sulkily and picked at the blanket.

"I've told you," she continued. "The part for the boiler has been ordered, but it's not being installed until the day after Boxing Day. As you've assured me that you're visiting your mother for Christmas, that shouldn't be a problem, should it." Sherlock scowled in response, and her face softened.

"Oh John, I got you this. It's just a little something."

"Ooh!" John squealed as she handed over the gift with a hug. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Mrs Hudson began to walk away.

"Hey! Where's mine? This is clearly favouritism."

"Now, Sherlock, I did say that anyone who ate their entire Advent calendar on the first of December wouldn't be getting a Christmas present."

John smiled smugly as Sherlock scoffed.

"Well, that's not fair! It's just a box of chocolates...technically. That's no reason to give John a present and not me."

"He ate mine too," John piped up and Sherlock glared at him.

"Honestly, Sherlock. Your face," she smiled as she handed over his gift.

"What? No! Mrs Hudson, _don't_ cave. Remember what the therapist said; we mustn't give in to his tantrums."

Sherlock smirked at John and held his present tightly to his chest. John folded his arms over his knees grumpily.

"Boys, behave yourselves. Right, my cab will be here any minute. Please check the gas is off before you both go away. Have a lovely Christmas." She leaned across and pecked them both on the cheek. Sherlock wished her a merry Christmas and John mumbled inaudibly into his knees. They were left alone.

John suddenly turned to Sherlock.

"You're not going to visit your mother, are you?" Sherlock didn't reply. "Sherlock, lying to Mrs Hudson is a sin. You'll be going to Hell for sure."

"I'm lying to my mother too," Sherlock added, rather pleased with himself. John blinked at him in disappointment. "What? John, don't look at me like that. Why should I subject myself to an entire day of hearing how wonderful my brother is? It makes me nauseous. I can't be doing with it. Besides, you still haven't packed for Harriet's yet."

"Yeah...I'm not going," John said sheepishly, stretching out his legs so his feet peeped out from the bottom of the blanket. "I can't be arsed."

"John–"

"Sherlock, anything you say next will sound highly hypercritical."

Sherlock pouted his irritation.

"Look, I don't even think she's back from her trip to Spain yet. The last I heard, her flight was delayed. Heathrow is still closed. There's my reason."

"Excuse."

"Whatever."

They sat on the sofa in silence; unable to move but unable to sleep.

"I could phone Lestrade?" Sherlock suggested after a while. John looked as him incredulously.

"Seriously, it's Christmas Eve. He'll kill you. Leave him alone."

"Oh yes, I forgot that policemen are one of those uncommitted professions like boiler men, shopkeepers, teachers and serial killers who can't possibly work at Christmas. Lazy!"

"Police do work on Christmas Day," John corrected. "As do doctors and nurses," he added quickly.

"Not if they're GPs," Sherlock spoke in a derogatory tone, which prompted John to snatch the blanket away. "No, no, no! I'm sorry John, I'm sorry."

John grinned in satisfaction before handing the blanket back.

"I was in the Army Hospital this time last year," John told Sherlock.

"As a patient?"

"Yes, as a patient." A thoughtful expression crossed John's face as he thought how much had changed in a year, and he shook his head to dismiss the thought. "Even being stuck in this freezing flat with no food and drink, and the least festive person in England, is already a big improvement from last year," John mused.

"I can be festive," Sherlock insisted. John gave a doubtful laugh.

"Go on then."

"Maybe later."

The pair fell quiet and listened to the sound of traffic making its way up the slushy street.

"John?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you asleep?"

"No. My nose is cold." John felt an icy hand against his face and he batted it away. "Get off me! Did you not believe me?"

"My nose is colder that yours."

"Hmm."

Sherlock lolled his head onto John's shoulder and looked up at him.

"Want to play a game?" John seemed unsure so Sherlock elaborated. "It involves theft."

"Go on, I'm listening."

"We each have five minutes to go downstairs and find the other a suitable present for tomorrow morning."

"Right...and by 'downstairs' you mean..."

"Mrs Hudson's flat."

"Right," John said again.

Sherlock took this response as an agreement and scrambled up from the sofa, grinning from ear to ear.

"Here's my phone. If you just press – no, not that one – yes there look, it's a stopwatch." Sherlock took a deep breath to prepare himself. "Any requests?"

"Not really."

Sherlock nodded once and dashed off down the stairs. John blinked at him as he watched him go, and turned the phone over in his hands as he waited. A sudden idea popped into his head and he smirked as he began to play with Sherlock's phone.

Sherlock charged back up the stairs with seconds to spare, and John heard him race to his bedroom to hide his 'gifts' before appearing in the doorway of the living room.

"Um...Sherlock...what are you planning on doing with that?"

"It's a bottle of vodka. We should drink it. It will keep us warm." He swung the bottle proudly between his fingers.

"Yes, yes we could. But I meant the other thing."

"Oh, this? This is our new Christmas tree."

John barked a laugh of disbelief.

"Sherlock...it's a spider plant."

Sherlock nodded his agreement.

"Yes. Mrs Hudson doesn't have a tree, or if she has she's hidden it spectacularly well. So this will have to do." He placed the drooping plant on the coffee table and admired it. Suddenly he frowned. "John, what have you done? You look shifty. What are you up to?"

John fought to hide his guilty smile.

"Nothing. Is it my turn?" He rose from the sofa as Sherlock sat down heavily and took his phone back.

"Yes. I've left the door open. I would like a decent present, and I know how incapable you are when it comes to picking locks."

"Thank you," John said through gritted teeth.

"You're welcome. Three, two, one...go!"

John moved with less enthusiasm down the stairs, leaving Sherlock to study the numbers as they ticked away on his phone. As the stopwatch neared the five minute marker, John made his way up the second flight of stairs to his bedroom, and then back down to the living room.

"I brought dinner," he announce, placing a half-eaten tin of Roses chocolates on the coffee table.

"Yum. So, what did you get me?"

"I'm not telling you," John mumbled with a mouthful of chocolate toffee. "You'll have to wait until the morning."

Sherlock pouted but said no more on the subject. Suddenly, a loud verse of Jingle Bells rang from Sherlock's phone. He looked down at it in horror.

"What? What have you done? John, this is outrageous. Change it back at once." John simply shrugged and helped himself to another chocolate. "I've been festively abused," Sherlock muttered as he looked down at his phone.

_Mycroft calling._

Sherlock groaned and let Jingle Bells play.

John began to giggle and Sherlock looked up at him.

"Let's play another game," John suggested. He rose and shuffled to the kitchen, bringing back two empty tumblers. "I call it: Drink Along With Mycroft. Every time he calls you between now and Boxing Day you have to drink. If he calls me, I will drink."

"What if he phones the landline?" Sherlock asked curiously.

"Then we both drink," John decided after a pause. He tipped the bottle with a steady hand and pushed the glass towards Sherlock, who laughed.

"John, that is _not_ a shot measure. Are you trying to kill me?"

"No, not intentionally."

"John, you really ought to know that I'm a lightweight when it comes to alcohol."

"Good, I look forward to it."

Sherlock eyed the glass sceptically before drinking the generous measure in one gulp.

"Nasty!" he coughed.

"It'll get better."

"I meant you."

The phone rang again and John sat back smugly as Sherlock eyed the vodka sullenly.

"I don't want to play anymore. Can I change my mind?"

"No."

Moments later, the house phone rang loudly into the room, making both men jump. They looked at it and back at each other.

"_I'll_ do the pouring," Sherlock insisted, snatching the bottle from John.

* * *

Later that evening, suitably tipsy, Sherlock lay at one end of the sofa, John at the other. The blanket was shared between the pair of them. Sherlock was giggling quietly to himself, though John was unsure of what was funny. He vaguely recognised the tune of Happy Birthday, which Sherlock was humming under his breath.

"Stop fidgeting!" John hissed, and pulled at the blanket. Sherlock blinked at him before hiccoughing.

"I feel sick."

"Well, vodka and chocolate is a risky combination. If you throw up on me I will never speak to you again."

"Noted."

"Did you realise it's nearly our first Frien-iversary?"

"Oh, God. John, you're drunk. Stop making up words."

"No, no listen...ok? We've lived together for nearly one whole year. We're, like, practically married now. And what a year it's been."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "Highlights?"

"Um...Getting an ASBO." They both laughed. "The crazy lady with all the cats. That was a strange, strange day. And those hippy ninjas in the cinema."

"Ah, yes. That was rather embarrassing; almost as embarrassing as those silly 3D glasses you made me wear."

"Witnessing Sherlock Holmes on the Underground has to be one of my favourite moments of this year, if not my entire life."

"Yes, yes alright," Sherlock grumbled. "How about when we went to the supermarket, and you had that incident with the wok in the home aisle?"

"Yes, but we promised the therapist we wouldn't speak of that again unless she was present."

"True," Sherlock agreed.

Sherlock began to sing Happy Birthday quietly, though he'd changed the word Birthday to Christmas. When it came to inserting a name, he paused in indecision.

"Baby Jesus?" John suggested, and Sherlock laughed loudly.

"Lyrical genius, John, lyrical genius."

They ended the song together, and then lay there in a sleepy silence.

"John?" Sherlock hissed in a loud whisper for no reason.

"Hmm?"

"What's your Christmas wish?" The words were slurred and John giggled.

"I wish for three more wishes."

"Predictable."

"Oh ok, I don't know. I'd like to get laid sometime soon."

"Festive," Sherlock said dryly.

"Maybe I'd like to be married by next Christmas. Is it stupid to put a deadline on this?"

"Yes, yes it is stupid."

"Christmas just seems better with kids._ You_ don't count," he spoke up as Sherlock tried to interject.

"Well, you'd better hurry up John. A human gestation period is, what, twelve months?"

"Nine. It's nine months, Sherlock." John spoke up wearily, rubbing his drunken eyes. Sherlock pondered this new information.

"Oh, is that all? You've got a bit of time then. No pressure."

John smiled sadly.

"What about you, Sherlock? What's your Christmas wish?"

Sherlock thought on this for a brief moment. He kicked John's leg as he tried to sit up to look at him.

"I wish I wasn't so drunk."

They both laughed.

"Did you like Christmas as a kid?"

Sherlock seemed taken aback by the question. Did it matter? It was a long time ago. He couldn't really remember. He remembered his mother's mince pies, and his father disappearing for hours on end, and Mycroft not speaking him to him for the whole day, too engrossed in his latest book.

"Yes," Sherlock lied. "I could always guess what my presents were without opening them."

"No you couldn't."

"Yes, I could. I bet I can tell what you've got me."

"No you can't."

Sherlock grinned as he closed his eyes.

"I like _this_ Christmas," he muttered quietly. John didn't ignore him, not like his father and Mycroft had done. John got him drunk, and ate all the toffee sweets from the tin, and danced around madly to Jingle Bells. John laughed when things were funny, and when they weren't funny too! That was what Christmas was all about. Well, partly anyway.

Sherlock heaved a sigh and vaguely registered that his eyes were still closed. He could hear John talking to him, but the words were distant. It made him smile anyway.

"Sherlock?...Sherlock?"

Sherlock responded with a loud, drunken snore and John chuckled.

"Good night, Sherlock. Merry Christmas."


	2. Chapter 2

Christmas Day

At roughly six o'clock in the morning, John managed to open one eye. The light in the living room was dim, and he was extremely pleased about this. He felt like he'd been chewing on cat litter, and his stomach was churning in a rather unpleasant way. Shifting his leg, he kicked out and his toe connected with something lumpy. It wasn't Sherlock, it was a cushion. With great effort, John sat upright, and flattened down his hair before rising to his feet with a wobble, and shuffling to the kitchen.

Sherlock was singing along to Live Aid on the radio, but it was clear he didn't know the words. On his hands he wore a pair of Latex gloves, clearly pinched from his latest investigation. He squirted copious amounts of kitchen cleaner onto the work surface before wafting a cloth at John in greeting.

"What _are_ you doing?" John croaked, running a hand over his face. Sherlock giggled.

"I have no idea. I think I'm still a bit drunk," Sherlock admitted as he wiped at the sink. "I shall put the kettle on. John...it's Christmas!"

"Urgh! It can go away," John muttered.

"You look awful," Sherlock told him with a straight face, but his tone was highly amused.

"This is all Mycroft's fault." John knew it wouldn't take much more sobering up for Sherlock to recall that it was in fact _John's_ fault. It was just easier to blame Mycroft. He gave a groan and put his forehead against the wooden tabletop. "Besides, it'll hit you later."

Sherlock shrugged at the comment, and filled the kettle.

"We should eat something."

"What is there?"

John headed to the fridge and found an onion, a half-eaten jar of olives and a small lump of cheese. John gave a little retch, and was pleased to be hidden by the fridge door.

"I heard that."

"Oh shut up! Right, for Christmas dinner today we are having cheese sandwiches."

Sherlock pulled a face.

"Cheese on toast?" John suggested instead.

"Ooh!"

It was only as John opened the bread did he realise that it was furry, and a very festive green. He showed it to Sherlock who blinked at him.

"It's mouldy," John explained. "And, as at least one of us is probably going to see it reappear at some point today, I suggest we don't eat it."

"Fine!" Sherlock huffed impatiently. "I'll go and see what we have in the downstairs fridge."

"_Mrs Hudson's_ fridge," John corrected but Sherlock had already galloped out the room, and John could hear him slipping on the stairs and laughing to himself.

Sherlock was gone for a suspiciously long time. John even considered going to search from him, in case he'd passed out and was lying in his own vomit. However, John's legs wouldn't move so he just sat there instead, nursing his headache.

"The hunter-gatherer returns," Sherlock announced in a loud voice as he entered the kitchen. John shushed him with a scowl and then surveyed the selection of food which Sherlock was laying out proudly on the table. There was a half-eaten trifle, as well as a packet of bacon, some sausages, a small loaf of bread, two oranges, a bottle of milk, some peanuts and a cake tin.

"I think it is a Christmas cake," Sherlock said, shaking the tin and hearing the object sliding around inside. He wrenched it open and nodded in satisfaction. "This is breakfast."

John looked into the tin in distain, and then pulled out a piece of paper which had been placed down the side of the cake.

_Don't think I don't know what you boys are up to! x_

John grinned and showed it to Sherlock.

"I think I love her a little bit."

"I think I do too."

Sometime later, the pair sat at the table eating a bacon sandwich.

"I feel _so_ much better now. We need sauce though."

Sherlock grinned and produced a bottle of tomato ketchup from his dressing gown pocket.

"Ok, that's a bit weird. Have you had that in your pocket all night?"

"No, of course not! I got it earlier, from downstairs."

Moments later, Sherlock garbled something with a mouthful of sandwich. John frowned at him.

"I have no idea what you just said."

Sherlock chewed quickly and swallowed a mouthful that was clearly too big. It made him choke. He sipped at his tea and then grinned.

"Presents!"

John laughed.

"Oh yes, I completely forgot about that. We have no wrapping paper."

Sherlock mused on this for a moment.

"I have The Daily Mail."

"That'll work."

The pair split the old newspaper and headed towards their rooms. John giggled as he made his way back down to the living room, where Sherlock had already placed his parcels beside their 'Christmas tree'. John took one look at the spider plant and burst out laughing. Sherlock scowled in irritation.

"John...John...John...pull yourself together! It's really not that funny."

John wiped at his eyes and sat beside Sherlock on the sofa. He looked up at his flatmate, sat expectantly beside him, and cracked up again. Sherlock huffed and sat back on the sofa, folding his arms impatiently.

"Are you done? Good. I want to show you what I've got for Mycroft."

John fought another laugh, and nodded for Sherlock to continue. Sherlock looked deeply serious as he showed John the first gift he'd found for his brother. It was a book. John frowned at it as he turned it over in his hands."

"'_How to lose weight without even trying._' Yes I'm sure this will go down nicely," John said. Sherlock ignored the sarcasm and beamed widely.

"I thought so. I also found this." He handed John a silver, engraved cake slice.

"Hmm."

Sherlock's phone began to ring, and the presents were momentarily forgotten as the pair jigged around to the tune of Jingle Bells. It stopped abruptly.

"Oh," exclaimed Sherlock.

"Text him, tell him to phone again," John suggested, handing over a glass to Sherlock who eyed it warily before sipping it.

"I'm ignoring him, John, remember?"

John's response was interrupted by his own phone ringing on the coffee table. Sherlock attempted to dance to the ring-ring tone, but soon gave up.

"It's not quite the same," he admitted as John took his turn to drink. He pulled a face of disgust. Drinking vodka at seven in the morning was _not_ a good idea!

Sherlock wasn't disappointed for long as, seconds later, Jingle Bells filled the room again.

"He's persistent isn't he?" John spoke up over the ring tone.

"I need to stop this," Sherlock said as he threw himself about. "I feel so sick!"

The phone stopped ringing and they sat back down on the sofa.

"Right, where were we?"

"Presents!"

Sherlock shoved a parcel into John's chest in excitement. John stared down at the gift, wrapped clumsily with newspaper and duct tape.

"Uh...thanks. Is it a CD?"

"Don't guess, just open it," Sherlock told him sternly.

John opened it to discover the face of Susan Boyle smiling up at him.

"Lovely. Thanks, it's very...me."

Sherlock beamed. John was handed another package and inside he found a pair of navy leather gloves.

"I think these are ladies gloves," John told Sherlock.

Sherlock shrugged in disinterest before passing over John's final present. As the paper was torn away, John found a small Tupperware box which contained a packet of tablets.

"Sherlock...are these Mrs Hudson's pills?"

"Yes. I thought they might help."

"With what?" John laughed. Sherlock shrugged again.

"I don't know. I panicked. I'll put them back. She needs them more than you." He tapped a finger against his temple suggestively.

As John gave Sherlock his own gift, he gave a little jig of excitement. John opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock had begun to rip the paper off with great speed.

"Binoculars. Excellent, I shall keep them with my telescope." He looked at John through the lenses. John grimaced and turned his face away.

"Spoken by the founder of perverts and stalkers dot com," John muttered to himself. Sherlock pretended not to hear.

"You've done surprisingly well John. What's next?"

Sherlock was handed his next and final gift. It was clearly a shoe box, and as Sherlock shook it he looked up at John with an intrigued smile.

"Have you tried to be clever?"

"What do you mean 'tried'? I _am_ clever."

Sherlock destroyed the paper and lifted the lid of the cardboard box. He gave a laugh of delight. In the box sat Sherlock's skull, grinning wildly with a festive red bow stuck to its ivory dome.

"Perfect, absolutely perfect. Only you could get away with giving someone a present that actually belongs to them, John Watson."

"Good, I'm glad you like it. Make the most of it, it's going back before Mrs Hudson comes home tomorrow."

Sherlock smiled sadly and placed the skull beside the spider plant. John had to admit he'd been surprised when he'd found it downstairs. He was also surprised that Sherlock hadn't spent his own five minutes searching for the skull instead of a present for John. It made him feel a bit fuzzy inside. Perhaps the alcohol was wearing off?

Suddenly, they heard a loud rap at the front door. Both men turned to stare at each other.

"It's Mycroft," Sherlock hissed. John wasn't sure how he knew this, but was interrupted before he could ask. "What should we do? We don't have a designated drinker for this. No, come back here!"

John had made his way to the window and had begun to peep through the closed curtains. Sherlock pulled John away by his arm and glared at him in panic.

"Ok...Ok...here's what we're going to do: You're going to answer the door and tell him I'm not here."

John blinked up at Sherlock.

"He'll know I'm lying. Why can't you go?"

"Because I can hardly tell him that _I'm_ not in, can I? Honestly John, you really are an idiot sometimes."

John considered this for a while, as another knock echoed up the stairs.

"Maybe he'll go away?"

"Or, more likely, he'll order the Secret Service to break the door down."

"God, I wish that wasn't true."

Sherlock paced the floor and then stopped suddenly.

"There's only one way to solve this."

John nodded in agreement and they faced each other seriously.

"One, two, three...Ha!" Sherlock cried. "Scissors wins!"

John scowled in defeat.

"John, you're so predictable. You pick Paper every time."

John mumbled under his breath as he headed down the stairs and wrenched open the door, trying hard to offer Mycroft a smile as he came in to view. The pair stood in an awkward silence for a brief moment.

"Hello, John," Mycroft ventured. "Sherlock sent you to answer the door, I presume?"

"Yes, he's upstairs," John said bluntly.

"JOHN!" came the bellow of disbelief from upstairs. John beamed.

"Please, do come in."

They found Sherlock curled up on the sofa, the blanket pulled up to his chin. John gave him a smug smile. Sherlock scowled up at them both.

"Happy Christmas, Sherlock."

"Go away."

"John, would it be possible to have a word with Sherlock in private, please."

John nodded and left the room, feeling a sudden wave of sympathy for his flatmate.

"Have you been drinking?"

"Yes. Go away."

"You haven't been answering my calls."

Somewhere in the kitchen, Sherlock heard John giggling.

Mycroft sat down on the other end of the sofa with a weary sigh and stared at him silently. It made Sherlock feel uncomfortable.

"Go on then," Sherlock prompted after a while. "Say your piece and then go." The silence continued. "Oh, for goodness sake. If this is supposed to be making me feel guilty it's not working." Sherlock pushed himself up with his elbows and glared at his brother. "What would you have me do Mycroft? John is on his own on Christmas day. I can't leave him here alone just to please you – or Mother, for that matter – so I'm staying here. I want to be here. With John. Me, John and our spider plant. It's called being a good friend, but I suppose you wouldn't know anything about that."

Mycroft regarded his younger brother.

"Are you quite finished?"

"Yes."

"Sherlock, did it never occur to you to invite John along with you?"

Sherlock scoffed loudly.

"Mycroft, John is my _friend._ I would never, _ever _subject him to that! We're happy here, thank you very much. Now go away."

"I suppose you'd better make the most of it," Mycroft said quietly as he rose from the sofa.

"What exactly is that supposed to mean?"

"Well, Sherlock you've been with John, what, nearly a year now –"

"Ten months, three weeks and six days."

"–And I'm very proud of that. Mummy is very proud of that. We're all so proud. But we're not entirely naive to the fact that this is just a phase, and that one day soon you'll get bored. Or, more likely, John will come to realise that he's a good, decent, _normal _man who could have a much better life than chasing your heels. So, enjoy your day Sherlock. I shall remind you of this next year." Mycroft looked down at his brother, who was staring angrily at the ceiling. He turned and left the room.

A moment later, John poked his head through the kitchen door.

"Has he gone?"

Sherlock groaned and hid himself under the blanket.

"Hey, what's wrong?" John sat himself down on the floor beside the sofa.

"Nothing," said the blanket. "Everything is just great. I'm hung over and my brother is a prize imbecile. I need to sleep."

Sherlock's form rolled over to face the back of the sofa. John frowned.

"Are you grumping?"

"No, I'm sad," Sherlock replied indignantly. "There is a difference."

"Don't be sad. It's Christmas. You're not allowed to be sad at Christmas."

"That's obviously untrue," came the muffled response. A silence fell and Sherlock waited for John to get up from the cold floor, but he didn't. Instead he leant his head against the sofa are and let out a long sigh.

"Did you give Mycroft his presents?" John asked after a while. Sherlock laughed into the sofa cushion, despite himself, and then sat up. The blanket fell from his face revealing his dishevelled hair.

"No. It's probably for the best."

"Yes, probably."

"John?"

"Hmm?"

"You're not going to leave, are you?"

The sudden question caused John to frown. He tipped his head back to look up at Sherlock, who was looking down anxiously.

"I couldn't be anywhere else," John replied.

"No, I didn't mean _today_."

"Neither did I," John said quietly and Sherlock smiled. "Well...we're far to sober for this level of 'deep and meaningful.'" He scrambled up from the floor and sat down next to Sherlock.

"We finished the vodka," Sherlock pointed out.

"Ah yes. Well, how about a sausage sandwich and a cup of tea?"

"Thank you, John."

"I never said _I _was making it."

* * *

That afternoon they sat under their blanket with the bowl of trifle balanced between them and two tea spoons. The television had been switched on.

"That's our Queen," John told Sherlock.

"Yes, thank you, I know that!" Sherlock scowled in indignation and John laughed.

John woke Sherlock up as the Queen's Speech ended, simply to inform him that he'd fallen asleep.

They sat for some time in a comfortable silence. The street was quiet below them as the people of London celebrated indoors. John turned to Sherlock, half expecting him to be asleep again.

"Thank you for today; for not leaving me on my own."

Sherlock gave a little smile to himself, wondering how much of his conversation with Mycroft had been overheard.

"You're welcome. We should do this more often. Perhaps without the vodka."

"Or the spider plant."

"Why? What's wrong with the spider plant?"

"Nothing...Sorry...Maybe next year we could get a proper tree?"

"Maybe," Sherlock replied, trying hard to fight the sudden hopeful feeling in his stomach. It was probably for the best if they took one festivity at a time. He rested his head on John's shoulder with a sigh, and took his hand. It was cold, and John frowned at Sherlock's sudden clinginess as he rubbed the hand in between his own.

"John?"

"Hmm?"

"What's your plan for New Year's Eve?"

The End

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year x


End file.
